Hunched over, staring at the blurry patch of the rug between my boots, I was commanded to sit up straight and look. I watched those verbose pearls roll off the tongues of my elders, And ground them into dust under my hoof. I’m still hard-headed, and I still can’t stand people living all over me, But those hard-headed folks pushed me into my own way of doing right and getting free.

Trying to ride.

My shoulder to the B pillar, I strained for the conversation, Yelling through the wind at the boys sitting inside, Watching hot rocks skitter out the black gap in the window And into the cosmos and headlights. But night swept along the side of the cab, and it swallowed up every sound. My dark hair crept across my burning cheek, and I turned on back around.

Trying to ride.

She cut off Heaven 810, and Looked down at me with her stern, dark eyes, Said: "It don't matter how good it sounds; Don't you never sing a lie."

Trying to ride.